


death impartial

by ogoltzius



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Blasphemy, Blood and Gore, Mental Breakdown, Other, Rape Aftermath, Visions, long inner monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 01:31:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14345148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ogoltzius/pseuds/ogoltzius
Summary: [Oz] Psych ward: Adebisi, vacillating between delirium and second sight, Peter, failing to ground himself in reality. Adebisi thinks Schibetta does not fear him appropriately.





	death impartial

He is in the kitchen with Peter, only he is peeling potatoes. He never peels potatoes. The potato in his hand is yellow and long and its skin peels off in one piece, like yam skin. 

Agony in an instant. He hollers as his skin rips from his bones, in one piece. Leaving all muscle and no boundaries. The old man watches with a flicker of amusement. 

Carefree torture, a birthright. Adebisi sneers. Skin confines him, in _those_ eyes. He reminds the old man, I am _not_ you!

Their eyes survey him, glittering as crushed glass. 

He flexes a skinned hand, watching his tendons writhe, and the peace of certainty descends. He can slaughter the world, for he believes in nothing. An offering defiled. A haze. He hears the drums. And they will not have him. He does not bathe in the white light. The old man’s visage, bereft of meaning.

Tell me, Jara: what use do I have for their blindness? He closes his fist and his blood splatters his feet. 

It is not the white man’s blindness concerns me. A man without purpose is not yet a man, he replies. Rue, the old Nigerian. Calling him a fool.

Adebisi curls his lip. The old man waits. 

I am _strong_! he bellows suddenly at the old man. Then he stalks closer and hisses at the old man, I am not _you_. He looms from above, dripping blood like syrup. Then he crouches down. I…  _live_ , he whispers to the old man’s ear, eyes huge and white as ghosts. 

He always lived as it pleased him. Nothing is true, beyond that. The old man’s gods will fade with this dream. Hypocrisy.

Old man, not impressed. You think I depend on tradition which has forsaken me. He does not ask this as a question. 

Adebisi laughs, but the scorn of many voices laughs louder. Sinks into him, sharp, even as the crushed glass burrows its way out. 

It has not even forsaken _you_ , the old man insists. I know you hear them, right here: he taps Adebisi’s temple with the lightness of a finger skimming drum skin. 

Adebisi, not impressed. And who will be my brother _now_ , Jara? huh? He smirks. Someone… to go to war with me? Huh?

Before him, the wooden prayer beads shattering like glass. He stops smiling. 

 _What god_ , he spits, and the Nigerian is gone, Simon’s own voice echoing back from silence. 

Nights go like this.

…

Days go like this:

He is bored. They try to counsel him. Two weeks in, he’s taking their drugs.

Sometimes, he looks after Peter. A slobbering fool, but light within. The opposite of Adebisi. Simon after his conversion. Peter, Peter. 

The white man’s ee-man, playing tricks in his head. 

The head of a lion, but dark within. The empty dark of the white man when he rules unquestionably. The dark when the bonds are not at your wrists but go up and up, crisscrossing through the sky like thickening trees. He walks on the earth like a god. On the earth, you see; but chains crisscross the heavens. A shaded way. Not the gates of pearl that make the decadent, colorless, false and bled-to-bone kings drool. 

He is here, cleaning Peter’s drool. Peter is beautiful like a girl, but not wanted like a girl. He was the white man, the wise guy, but now he is laid low. Now he is, Simon, Peter. 

Peter pushes him away. Adebisi returns. Peter squirms out of reach. Adebisi reaches. Peter slaps his hands away. Annoyed, Adebisi catches his wrists and scrubs his face hard.

Clean now. He grabs Peter’s divine face in both hands. Forces his eyes forward. Looks into his vacant eyes. The absence within them has been tainted: a flicker of recognition, but not the rebuke he has earned.

Startled and angry, he throws Schibetta to the ground. 

…

One day goes like this,

He leaves Peter. All day, drooling, crying, helpless. He watches as other inmates assault him with bizarre but mostly harmless contact, watches Peter cringe. He made that cringe. Enjoyed it too much, perhaps. When Peter cries out and shoves away the offered Orange Surprise, he makes more space than the hack requires. This happens again. 

Adebisi’s eyes darken as he realizes that he has been dancing this way, too. For crossing him, he should have put the Guinea down. 

He means to cut ties with a repeat performance. 

…

One night goes like this.

Hacks leaves their adjacent cells unlocked. If he fucks Schibetta, they will take him to the hole. Adebisi watches this. The lights are always on in the loony bin. 

He doesn’t know quite how it happens, but he finds himself crouching between Peter’s knees, regarding his white palms, bloodied in repeating crescents. This is what happens when Peter Schibetta cringes from the real or imagined form of Simon Adebisi.

He allows Schibetta’s hands to flutter away like uncertain things. Schibetta’s quiet with him. He should be screaming. Then Schibetta’s hands are tracing his brow, cheek, fingers brushing down over his lips. Schibetta’s lips on his; as they part, the soft tenderness taking him by surprise. Adebisi, eyes closed, as Peter kisses him again, salty-wet. He’s hard from it, but he doesn’t move. Feels himself almost grinning in the heat from those lips. What are you doing, Schibetta? he mocks. 

Peter kisses him, crying.

He thinks, no place of worship will be built on this rock as it crumbles. Simon feels disgusted at Peter’s wretched state, but he does not move. He is balanced, on the edge of being wrapped in his own skin like a dark blanket. 

Do you want me to fuck you again? huh? Peter says nothing, kissing him. You are kissing me like you want me to fuck you, he says. Do you know, it will be like the last time?

Peter freezes. Adebisi’s muscles, still tense and warm, but now under wraps, his skin like a pall. He rises, pushes Peter down in the cot, draws the scratchy blanket over him, and turns away. 

Peter catches his hand, locking their fingers together, asking him to stay. Adebisi sucks his teeth. But then he sees them twisted together without skin, with skin, distinct. 

He draws a chair from outside the room, aluminum on linoleum, which produces a shrieking sound. He puts a foot up on Peter’s bed and regards him. Peter, reborn in the empty dark of his god.

Just for tonight, he says, I will stay. He crosses his arms over his chest and closes his eyes. 

He feels sanity descending. Tomorrow, he is getting out of here.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I wanted to fill some details of proximity, but through Adebisi’s nihilistic and sometimes prescient voice. Difficult. Comments/concrit appreciated.


End file.
